


Second Degree Friends or Excuses or Another One Bites the Dust

by Toki_Blade



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Drugs, Gen, black mail, mentions of drug use
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-13
Updated: 2014-03-11
Packaged: 2018-01-12 06:40:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1183080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Toki_Blade/pseuds/Toki_Blade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Basically it’s Breaking Bad but in reverse.</p><p>Except not at all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I just realized how metaphorically short this is gonna be.

After a while you've come to the realization that Bro isn't invincible.

He's not omnipotent, omnipresent, nor is he omniscient.

He's not god.

It actually shocks you that it took you this long to figure that out.

He doesn't know everything.

Most of the time, you've come to find, he just thinks something’s up so he uses some sort of reverse psychology bullshit on you to get you to tell him _every goddamn thing he wants to know_. You always figured he _did_ know but was just giving you the chance to fess up yourself. You figured that he was just looking for details and if you gave them to him yourself then he wouldn't be near as mad then he would if someone else told him or he figured it out on his own.

It's taken all these years, all seventeen goddamn years of your life to figure out that you'd been screwing yourself over all this time.

But now that you _did_ know, you could actually _do_ something about it (half the time, the other half his stare is enough to have you spilling the beans way before dinner) and save your ass from some harsh beating.

The dude doesn't _know_ your computer passwords that you'd been changing every week out of paranoia.

And unless you're stupid and forget to clear your history and he _does_ guess your password, he doesn't know what you get up to on your computer.

He has no fucking idea.

And it kind of thrills you.

You'd actually figured it out a few months ago. For as good as he was with computers and shit, he wasn't actually that good at hacking. He still had to figure out your password in the allotted time that you weren't around (read: at John's house or at school).

After a time you're started actually making a log of how long it took him to actually get on to your pc.

So far you were at one week four days eight hours and seven minutes. Your current password had a combination of fourteen characters (that still related to you, you couldn't make it _impossible_ for the guy).

The last password, one with thirteen characters (the one before that had seven you're not _stupid_ ) took him eight days and three hours, approximately.

You're playing a game with him and he _has no fucking clue how bizarre is that_?

You had this program that told you every time you logged on or off and you were getting really good at checking the time and making sure that everything was up to par and matching up with what you remembered.

A buddy's buddy was giving you tips on how to keep all of your shit private and protected.

You figure you're actually doing pretty well for yourself.

So you keep it up. You mosey around the apartment like you fucking _own_ the place and when he asks if there's something you think you want to talk about you go 'nah' and continue on your merry little way.

It's driving him batshit insane, you can tell.

You've also been borrowing his stuff.

Little stuff, here and there that you always put back near the same place you found it.

Near, but not exact.

And when he comes out with said item raising an eyebrow and looking at you pointedly- you ignore him.

Because there is no way he can be sure it was really you and that he's not going senile in his old age. (even though you're not actually sure how old he really is)

Once you even moved everything in his room an inch to the left.

You know he knows you did it even if it took him a few days to figure it out. (dude was bumping into things for days shit was hilarious) You received twice the ass kicking that day and it is so totally worth it.

But that's another thing.

He's not a god.

He bleeds like everybody else.

He's mortal like everybody else and that part actually kind of freaks you out a little bit because that means someday he's going to die. Which is crazy to think about because Bro? Die? Don't be absurd.

Except you know it'll happen someday just like it'll happen with everybody else you just don't like thinking about it.

The older you get the better you get and the closer in match the two of you actually are. Of course every year he always ups his game which infuriates you because you know he's been playing you this entire time.

And even though you know all this, that he doesn't know everything, that he's not some immortal god, knowing and getting your damned reflexes to understand the situation are two entirely different things.

In your wise age you have come to memorize every creak of the floor in this shitty apartment and every squeak of every door. So, logically, there is no way for him to actually get in your room and stand behind you without your knowing.

This doesn't stop you from whipping around and giving yourself whiplash when there's a strange noise (in an apartment building that other people live in besides you and your brother) even when he's not home and off doing whatever it is your bro goes off and does when he says he's going 'out'.

This, of course, does not mean he can't still sneak up on you and ambush you with smuppets and get you _every goddamn time_ like some tool. This just means he can't actually get in your room without you noticing.

Unless your headphones are in because that's actually happened once or twice before and man did that ever freak you out.

You’re home alone (again) mixing up some sweet beats.

Tomorrow’s Friday and after that’s the weekend. You have a plan to absolutely nothing.

It will be the best of weekends.

You’re bro’s gone for a few more days so it’s not like he’ll be around to bother you. And after that last strife you sort of do need some time off (not that you’ll ever admit it).

You stay up too late and are almost late for school.

And your brother will never know.


	2. Chapter 2

It's been a long day and you are stressed and tired and all you really want to do is go home.

You are full intent on locking yourself in your room and just working on some sick beats and maybe dying a little because you are fucking _exhausted_.

Someone calls out to you.

"Dave!" They croone, and drag out your 'a' a little longer than necessary.

Vriska.

John's pseudo girlfriend.

She waves and flounces over to you, all dyed blonde curls and smiles.

You have a feeling something's up.

"Sup, Serket, what can I do you for?"

She smiles down at you (because damnit she's taller than you but is also wearing heels so you feel a little more justified) like you're just the pawn she's looking for.

She bends over slightly.

Her shirt is a low v-neck and you swear she should be falling out of it by now and you are not entirely sure how she got away with it at school.

The first word that comes to mind when you see this type of girl (fake blonde hair, skimpy clothing) is generally slut.

But this is Vriska Serket.

Vriska Serket is a demon in disguise.

She's in cheerleading for kicks and likes to hang around John for some unknown reason.

You don't actually like her, like, at all.

You've told John this before (among other things) but he would just wave you off and tell you that you needed to get to know her before you judged her.

But you didn't want to get to know her.

You wanted her to stay out of your life as much as humanly possible because some pretty bad shit usually when down when she was around and you did _not_ want to be part of that.

She flutters her eyes at you like she thinks that will get her somewhere.

"I was wondering if we could talk."

Fuck no.

"What about?" She's still John's friend if nothing else. And your friend once removed by proxy.

"Well," and there she goes, biting her lip, "it's about John."

Now this actually spikes your interest.

"What about John?"

And she's shifting again and fiddling with her bracelet. "Could we maybe talk inside?"

There is no way you want this manipulative bitch inside any square inch of your apartment building (or you're apartment itself) but if it's about John it might actually be important and you might actually give a shit.

You lead her in your building and up the stairs. She huffs loudly a few times but you don’t bother looking back at her. If you have to climb these stairs every goddamn day then she can at least do it once in her lifetime.

Builds character.

You get to your place without incident. Vriska’s looking a bit more pissy that usual but you ignore her in favor for getting your door open.

You spare a glance at her as she stalks in, blowing some hair out of her face and flipping some more over her shoulder.

Girls.

When she caught you looking (but not really because you’re wearing your shades) she smiled and sort of waggled her fingers at you.

What. Even.

“So Dave.” She starts, and she saunters over to your couch like she owns the place. She brushes some smuppets aside and onto the floor with a wrinkle of her nose. “Let’s talk about John.”

You shrug and meander over to a wall that you can lean on. One that’s still mostly in her line of vision but she still has to sit a little awkwardly so that she can see you.

Justice. Take that.

“‘Kay.” You say, “Let’s talk about John.”

_let’s talk about sex, baby. let’s talk about you and me._

You really need to stop that.

Vriska looks at you almost pityingly. “Dave.” She says, and she bites her cheek, “Dave.”

What woman.

“Dave.” She says for a third time, “I’m not exactly sure how to say this.”

You open your mouth and words come out.

“I- maybe it’s not even my place to tell.” She sort of trails off and then gives you a sideways look.

Oh.

_Oh_.

She wants an audience. And unless she gets one you aren’t gonna get the deets.

You count backwards from ten. (fastly)

“Tell me what?”

“Well, it’s about John.”

Duh. You’ve said that already, get on with it.

“He’s, well,” she pauses again and studies your face. She want’s a show, but you aren’t giving her one. “Oh, I’m just going to come right out and say it.” Finally. “Dave, John’s sick.”

You stare at her, unimpressed.

“Yeah. I know.”

Her face scrunches up, “What do you mean ‘you know’?”

You resist rolling your eyes even though she can’t see them. “He wasn’t at school today. He texted me and told me he wasn’t feeling well. Con Air is his favorite movie. Take your pick Serket.”

She purses her lips and looks slightly annoyed. Like she has to deal with a mentally challenged child or something.

“No, Dave.” She says, and gives you a once over. “Actually, you might want to sit down...”

Fuck that noise. You’re not some chambermaid who's gonna faint at the mere sight of blood.

You’re standing.

You stare her down (clearly winning because she can’t even see your own eyes, just her reflection) and she sighs. “Fine, have it your way.”

She shifts around in her seat some more (even though she’s already done this and should just fucking tell you what’s what before you metaphorically blow your top so high it will become a fucking satellite) she bites at her lips. She runs some hair behind her ear. (and it promptly falls back in her face)

“Dave, John’s not just sick. He missed school for a hospital appointment.”

And, okay. Wow.

Yeah.

That’s actually, that kind of peaks your interest.

“What do you mean?”

And she actually looks flustered now, what the hell?

“Dave, John, he’s- well, I mean- oh fuck it! Dave, John has cancer.”

What.

The.

Fuck.

You both just kind of wait there for a few moments.

You _must_ have heard her wrong because that doesn’t even make sense. John is _fine_ you saw him _yesterday_.

Your face must be too blank for comfort because she starts rambling.

“I mean, I didn’t want to just come out and _tell_ you like that because, wow, shocker! But I mean, you’re like John’s best friend, right? He should have _told_ you, fuck he should have told _me_ and I only found out by accident- but I mean- you deserve to know! Right? So, I thought I’d tell you. Because you’re John’s friend, and I’m John’s friend, and we have to look out for him right? Because, I mean, if _we_ don’t, who will!? And we’ve got to watch each other's backs. And like, I’ve got your’s. Don’t worry. Just- I thought you should know.”

And then you’re sitting there in silence again, like wow. This is awkward.

Or at least it would be if you could fucking wrap your head around what she was even saying.

Okay, okay, cool it. You’re cool. You’re chill as ice. You’re the Ice King. Gonna go kidnap yourself some princesses.

You’re fine.

But like, John’s not?

Or Vriska’s lying, but why would she? Even though she’s a conniving bitch who has it out for everyone, she’s still John’s friend.

Fuck.

You swallow, (when did your mouth get so dry?) “You sure?” You ask, because fuck. It’s a little hard on the ears. Grating at your very soul like your fucking cheddar or something.

Fuck.

Her eyebrows knit together and she sort of stands up, hovering by the couch with her arms half raised. “Well I mean- yeah, Dave. I’m sure. I mean, I wouldn’t lie about something like this, right?”

Right.

Right?

Not even Vriska would stoop this low.

This- wow.

When did you get on the floor?

Vriska’s closer now, her hands twitching awkwardly, “Dave? Uh, do you need me to-”

“How long?” You croak, and wow, what are you? A frog? You clear your throat. “How long does he have?”

Because _fuck_ it’s _John_ and he didn’t _tell_ you.

And then she’s coo-ing again and sinking down next to you. “Ooohh, Dave.” And there she goes dragging your name out again, “no. No, it’s- he’s getting treatment. John’ll be fine. It’s just- that’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”

The only thing that really gets through to you is the fact that _John isn’t dying_.

Maybe he just has this little tumor thing that they can get rid of real easy.

Maybe that’s why he didn’t tell you?

It’s not a big deal and he didn’t want you to worry and once it was gone he could tell you and you might be a little angry but everything would be fine.

Maybe you’re just over reacting.

Fuck.

John’s going to be fine.

It occurs to you that you haven’t actually been breathing for the last few minutes and try to catch your breath without letting Vriska you were actually affected this badly.

You glance over at her and realize that’s she’s been talking this whole time.

“- I mean, I just want to help, you know? And I thought you would too, so that’s why I came here.” She’s giving you this little smile and you kind of just want her to leave so you can go and have a non-breakdown in your room.

Alone.

Without her here.

“So will you?” She asks, “Help, I mean. It’s for John, and I think he could really use the help. Even if he doesn’t say anything.”

She’s looking at you expectantly.

“Yeah,” you say, “Sure. I’ll help John out.”

What the heck does she want you to do?

“Awesome!” She says, then whips out her phone. “And with that I actually kind of have to be going!” She stands up and brushes her legs off. “Thanks for talking with me, Dave! It’ll be so much easier with you on board.”

You nod and stand up as well, walking her to the door.

She’s got it open and is already halfway through when she pauses and glances back at you. “Dave? I think it might be better if we don’t mention this to John, you know? I don’t want him worrying about us when he’s the one who’s sick. So, think you can keep it quiet?”

“Sure thing babe, my lips are zipped.”

“Cool, well I’ll see you later then.”

And then she’s gone.

And you kind of really confused.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wish these chapters were longer.
> 
> I wish I could write Vriska.

It is eight o’clock on a Saturday morning and someone is buzzing your apartment.

You’ll repeat: _it is eight o’clock on a Saturday morning and someone is buzzing your apartment_.

Who the fuck would be buzzing the apartment at this ungodly hour in the morning?

On a _Saturday_ morning no less.

You grunt and fall out of bed, landing in a dishevelled pile of limbs and sheets.

You manage your way over to the door, push the little button down and say “Mmrng?”

“Dave?” The voice asks, “is that you? I _did_ get the right apartment number, didn’t I?”

You blink blearily at the intercom, it’s bright and you can’t really see anything and it finially dawns on you that you have yet to put on your shades.

“Uh,” you manage, “Yeah? Who s’is?”

The speaker laughs and you cringe back. Fuck that’s loud. “It’s Vriska, silly. Now buzz me in.”

You let the turn over in your head a few times. Vriska? 

“Serket?”

Another giggle, “Mmhm.”

Vriska. 

What the fuck was Vriska doing at your house?

“What the fuck are you doing at my house?”

You’re pretty sure if you could see her she’d be rolling her eyes. “Honestly, Dave. Did you listen to anything I said Yesterday? Like, at all?”

You let out an intelligent “uh”.

She sighs, “Do you remember what we talked about? You said you’d help.”

Oh.

Oh yeah.

That.

That thing that you agreed to without knowing what you were actually agreeing to.

Huh. 

“Oh, yeah.”

“Yes ‘ _oh yeah_ ’ I said I’d be over, and I quote ‘Tomorrow morning’. Hence _Today_ , Dave.”

Fuck.

“Well, yeah. But does morning have to start so damn early?”

A huff. “It’s eight, Dave. There is no better time to start things!”

“Right, well. Strider mornings don’t actually start till the, uh, afternoon. So like, just come back then.”

“No, Dave!” And she drags out every vowel possible. “We have to do it _Today_ and by _Today_ I mean _right now_ so buzz me in.”

You grumble (but you did promise fuck) and buzz her in.

While you assume she is making her way up the stairs (no way is the elevator magically working) you head back to your room and try to look at least somewhat presentable.

Meaning you put on some clothes and locate your shades (relocating them to your face where they belong).

And then she’s knocking at the door and you _really_ don’t want to answer but you do.

And there she is.

All five foot eight of skanky clothes, makeup, and blonde hair.

All of it.

Fuck your life.

“Well aren’t you going to invite me in?” She asks and you really just want to gouge your own ears out.

Maybe your eyes too.

You step aside and hold out your arm.

She waltzes in.

She gives the place the same once over she did before, and wrinkles her nose a bit before turning back to you.

“So are you ready?” She glances you up and down and her face twitches like she wants to scrunch it up in disgust but thought better of it and is now trying to remain placid.

_are you ready, are you ready_

You shrug, stuffing your hands in your jean pockets. “Readier than a mother on labor day. Let’s go out and shoot this horse.”

Her mouth presses in a thin, tight line. “Dave.” she says, stops, and appears to think about what she really wants to say. “Dave. You’re not wearing _that_ are you?”

You blink, then tilt your head to look down at yourself.

Black pants and a graphic T with some assorted band on it.

Oh right. Fuck, _shoes_.

“Right, yeah. I’ll go grab some shoes.” 

You move to go around her but she catches your arm and raises an eyebrow.

Just one.

Just one eyebrow.

“Dave” she says again and _what_.

She narrows her eyes.

You squint up at her (dammit she’s wearing heels okay?) even though she can’t see your eyes.

“And a- jacket?”

She huffs and looks at the ceiling. “Dave.” 

“ _What_.” You say, because if she wants you to grab a jacket you will because maybe it’s cold, you don’t know.

“You find _nothing_ wrong with your outfit? Like, _nothing_?”

“Uh, no?” You glance down at yourself again. “Why. Should I? Is there something on my shirt?”

She sighs and rubs her face with one hand. How she manages not to smear her makeup is beyond you. She mutters something under her breath before looking up again, fake smile in full.

“Nothing, Dave. We’ll talk about it later. Let’s go.”

Talk about _what_ later?

Whatever.

“Cool,” you say, “but I still need to grab my shoes.”

“Mm.” She says, and her face is tight and she’s looking at the ceiling again. “Okay, Dave. Hurry.”

You take your sweetass time.

When you return (converse and plaid jacket clad) she’s tapping her foot (who actually _does_ that) and is glancing at the wall clock every few seconds.

“ _Finally_ ,” she says, exasperated. “Let’s _go_ we’re running late as it is.”

You grab your keys off the counter and follow her out the door, making sure it closes all the way. “Late for what?”

She half turns to you, as you begin your descent, squinting her eyes. “Dave, do you even _know_ where we’re going?”

You shrug, “Naw man. You’re the boss lady. I’m just following you.”

_into the dark_

Fuck, you’ve really gotta stop.

She keeps staring at you and she should really watch where she’s going because she’ll probably trip and die and it will probably be your fault because you haven’t even warned her about the stairs yet.

“Hey, be careful-” “Do you even-”

You both begin at the same time and both cut off abruptly.

She huffs and flips her hair, “What?”

“I was just saying that you should be careful on the stairs.”

She blinks. Face smoothing, devoid of any lines or downcast eyebrows.

But then her face squashes together again (she is so expressive how does she _live_ ) her eyebrows are knitted together, eyes puzzled.

“Uh, thanks I guess.” 

You shrug. “What were you saying?”

She shrugs as well and finally turns to watch where her feet are going. “I was asking you if you even knew what we were doing.”

Fuck.

Play it cool.

“Yeah man. We’re doin’ some shit so we can help John out. It’s chill.”

She’s looking at you again but this time you’re not quite sure what you should be depicting. “You’re _sure_ it’s cool? Because you can turn back now, Dave. There’s nothing stopping you. I won’t even hold anything against you.”

What the fuck was she even talking about?

“No, I’m good. If it’ll help John then I am on it faster then flies to a decomposing body freshly killed by the bay harbor butcher. There’ll be maggots all up in this so fast you won’t even know where the flesh went.”

Her nose scrunches up. “Ew, Dave.”

Whatever.

It’s all good.

You’ll do this one thing with Serket and you can help a bro out.

It’s cool.  



End file.
